This Sort of Thing
by SallyJetson
Summary: Post 4.11 How does one help and heal at the same time?


**A/N**: Post 4.11. Slight spoilers for Child's Play

**This Sort of Thing**

She knew it was risky. She knew it was daring. She knew it wouldn't help them; it was too late for that, but it could help others. Could it help him, could it help her, could it help them?

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Three envelopes numbered one through three, ordered from left to right, stark white against deep black. The first labeled, 'Open Me Now', underneath the number. It was her handwriting, but he was baffled. _What was this about?_

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The sheath fragilely stranded upon her shoulders, seductively nipped and tucked along her curves, daringly slit to expose a shapely leg lent little to the feeling that she was adequately covered. However the burnished copper hue heightened the sparkle of her eyes and reflected the luxurious sheen of her hair floating about her face.

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He'd never dressed like this before, not even for a graduation ceremony. Monkey suits had never been his thing. But to have a chance to put things right with her, he would do anything, anything at all. Patting his chest, assuring himself that the other two envelopes were tucked into the inner pocket, he hailed a taxi.

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The lights lowered and she wondered where he was. Would he follow her instructions to a T? Would he see past it all to come through for them? Or would he think she was nuts and continue to build the wall, leave her at the mercy of an unknown, even for a worthy cause?

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He arrived at the seat reserved for him after the lights had dimmed, unaware of and not caring what the posh event entailed. Seated, he craned his neck as the curtain parted. The seat beside him was empty; he wondered when she would arrive. Sporting events, not charity events, were his thing, but he would do anything to take it all back, another chance to be with her.

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A muffled voice, booming, but deeply melodic, called them out one by one, warbling their virtues, reeling them in again, their cheeks flushed from the cat-walk high, their eyes glazed from the blinding glare. Each return brought her closer … _Please don't let me sweat. Please don't let me trip. Please God … don't let me faint!_

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He waited – impatiently. Any other time he might have been able to bear the event by delighting in the femininely alluring images sauntering above him, but these days – and nights – his eyes turned inward upon himself, inescapable images shadowing in his mind, guilt replaying the 'should haves' and 'what ifs'.

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Chin up, eyes ahead, smile plastered, placing one delicately sandaled foot in front of the other, realizing once she stepped into the glare that the glare was all she could see. Not knowing if he was present and watching – aghast or approving – she surrendered herself to it and floated down, swiveled with flair and floated back.

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Only a split-second registration of her name before he laid eyes upon her then his breathing ceased. An exquisite image of hair, hips and smile, he'd almost forgotten how beautiful she was, how much he stood to lose. His breathing revived but his muscles tensed.

_Damn, what is she doing in front of all these people?_

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She immediately found a chair backstage and collapsed into it. Proud and relieved, but weakened by the rush and recession of the adrenaline high, she knew the most important portion of the evening loomed ahead. Wishing like crazy for a shot of something stiff to prepare herself for her final appearance, she patched through by lolling her head back against the wall and sucking in deep breaths of air.

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Too stunned for his own coherency of thought or movement into action he was unaware when the lights lifted slightly, allowing 'spotters' to mingle throughout the audience. Unaware that is, until the announcement of _'a last minute anonymous donor' _who would be _'matching all contributions collected tonight'_. Then he remembered envelope number two. Hastily he ripped it open and withdrawing two slips of paper, he cursed with dawning revelation.

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Her turn came too quickly but with quivering legs and palpitating heart, she faced the glaring lights. Faced them as surely as her friends had faced that final bright light – she utterly helpless, not more than twenty feet away. As surely as the bright light in a little boy's eyes had been extinguished – he completely unaware, not more than twenty feet away. Her final walk was for them … and for them.

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His hand shot into the air with unbridled resolve. The bidding went fast and furious for an evening of dinner and dancing with one of New York's finest, but he knew this wasn't about the evening. This was about helping others avoid the same devastating fate, about sparing innocent lives.

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When the gavel came down, she felt elation at her success but she knew it would never replace her loss.

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When she left the stage, he felt pride at her courage and generosity, but he knew it would never replace his loss.

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The breeze, tainted with bustling city sounds, soothed her heated skin but not her racing mind. Success would bring him to her otherwise she would have to face her fate alone.

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He paused at the door, staring at the key card that had been in envelope number three, wondering how he could even begin to tell her. What if he didn't have the words?

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A shaft of light appeared then disappeared as the door softly clicked closed. She gripped the rails tightly, closing her eyes to the glaring lights of the city, knowing now that he had been successful but not knowing his feelings.

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Statuesque. Only the lift of her hair in the breeze indicated that a flesh and blood woman stood before him. He tossed the key card atop the credenza crossing the room swiftly and silently. Stepping out onto the balcony, her scent wafted towards him, burying logic, arousing desire. He knew he should talk but all he could do was touch.

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The warmth of his hands upon her shoulders sparked hope within her. She swayed back into him, thankful for his silent presence. His hands traveled the length of her arms threading his fingers through hers, wrapping their arms around her waist as his lips found her neck. She no longer cared about his thoughts; she only craved his touch.

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And in that moment, he realized that everything that had gone wrong, everything that had been his fault, every way that he had failed others would pale in comparison if he didn't embrace what had gone right, who he had fought for and supported, who in the end had let him in and brought him the greatest joy in his life, the one who, tonight, had stepped outside of her comfort zone to sacrifice enormously in the name of helping and healing.

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And she turned in his arms, her hands traveling up the length of his arms to settle behind his neck and urge his face down toward hers. Her lips soft upon his, expressing all that he wouldn't hear through her words, drawing his grief into hers, mingling it, morphing it into something shared and binding.

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The cold began to settle around the city and she shivered so he shed his jacket, wrapped it around her shoulders and drew her close to his chest. He chin bobbed against her temple as he asked, "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why give it all away?"

"What would I have done with it?"

Frustrated with her question, he waved a hand toward the city behind her. "Walk away from this life, away from the death, the horrors, the futility of it all."

"I walked into this life to get away from the death, the horrors. And to me, this life is not futile."

"But that settlement check from the wrongful death suit – "

"Would have never made me feel better about their deaths if I had used it for myself. Never."

"But –"

"But nothing, Danny, nothing has ever made me feel better about their deaths except ..."

"Except what?"

"Except helping others find peace when faced with the death of their loved ones," her voice weakened, "the … the only way I know how." She turned away from him, gripping the rails, feeling her fingernails dig back into her skin, needing that pain to mask the pain of her shortcomings.

Suddenly he realized the depth of her hurt at his rejection of her help. "You do Montana, you help others, you do."

"Maybe others, but not you. I can't help you."

"That's not true, Montana." His voice softened as he wrapped his fingers around her upper arms, turning her around. "You've already helped by trusting me, by letting me in, by showing me your strength throughout all the sensitive cases we've worked, during the trial in Bozeman, your willingness to reach out to me in the morgue, your courage and generosity here tonight."

"Really?"

"Yeah, really, why would you doubt that?"

And all she could do was to say it just as Mac had told her to. "Because … because I'm not good at this sort of thing."

" Montana, you're perfect at this sort of thing."


End file.
